Page 70 of The Witch Queen

“How long are you going to punish me for that?” she demands.

Forever,that voice whispers.Until her bones are nothing but dust.

“That depends on you,” I reply. “You can take this opportunity or leave it. There won’t be another. I can see the marks on your arm from here. How long do you think you have?”

She pauses. The torches snap in the draft. And for an instant, I believe I’ve underestimated her stubbornness. Perhaps she really will choose the covens. Die a martyr rather than bargain with me. But then—

“Fine,” she says, the word rough and thick with shame.

You see,that voice slinks through my mind.She is just like you.

The victory is bittersweet.

“So you’re not the noble witch after all,” I say. “You’ll put yourself first—just as you’ve always done.”

A muscle in her jaw sets. “Ihateyou.”

The words land in a tender place, but I refuse to show it. I lean in, so close that, beneath the foulness of the dungeons, I smell the hint of juniper clinging to her skin. So close that our lips could brush. Energy crackles between us.

“Good,” I whisper. “That will make things easier.”

For both of us.

Part III

My carriage leaves at first light, bound for the duke’s estate in Darryn. Our wedding will take place shortly after my arrival, not that I’m celebrating. The man is more than twice my age and, from what I hear, abhors parties, music, or anything else that passes for entertainment.

I might as well be headed to my execution, though it doesn’t seem like anyone else cares. Then again, I’m not certain anyone knows that I’m being shipped off. I haven’t been allowed out of my rooms in days. The sole company I’m permitted is Mother, who visits only to scold or lecture, fixing me with that dour expression she has when she’s disappointed—her lips pursed and her nose lifted. She looks like a badger.

Father, for his part, hasn’t been to see me once. Mother says he won’t come—not even tomorrow, to bid his only daughter farewell. Apparently, he can’t bear the sight of me. Mother claims I should count myself fortunate that he didn’t devise a worse punishment for my supposed crime.

Rubbish. There is no worse punishment than marriage. And I didn’t do anything that Papa wouldn’t have attempted himself. In fact, he’s probably done worse. No matter. They can banish me if they like. But I will not forget this.

And I willnotforgive.

—From the private writings of Princess Margaret, Age of the Light 22

Chapter Twenty

Blodwyn

Over the next few days, the memory of the attack fades beneath the flurry of preparations for the next trial: the Remembrance Ball.

Much as I dreaded the hunt, the ball will be a thousand times worse. As is tradition, everyone attends the event in costume, representing a figure from Riven’s history. My own gown is meant to honor my mother. I’d requested a simple design, as Mother would have worn. But Aunt Margaret insisted on a monstrosity of white silk studded with pearls andrealdiamonds. I have no idea how I’ll be able to move, much less dance, in it. And the dress is the least of my worries. For everyone else, the ball will consist of music and food and revelry. But I’ll be spending the hours answering a barrage of questions pertaining to Riven’s history. At the end of the night, only the three claimants with the highest score will advance to the final trial. Which means I need to cram as much information into my skull as possible.

Luckily, I won’t be alone. Verity has agreed to help me study before the challenge, and so I make my way to the library to meet her. It’s the first time I’ve been able to visit the place since my return, and as I step through the doors, it almost feels as though the last three years slide away. The second-story gallery stretches above me, the shelvesfashioned to look like towering trees. Apple-shaped light fixtures cast everything in a warm amber glow. Mother and I spent hours tucked away here, sharing our favorite books. The memories of that time are so vivid that I half expect her to round the corner, smiling at me with her arms full of volumes.

“Your Highness!”

A man in purple Keepers’ robes approaches from the large desk at the front. His smile is wide and welcoming, his hazel eyes twinkling behind his spectacles.

“Master William!”

Abandoning Aunt Margaret’s propriety lessons, I throw my arms around the Keeper. He smells of old books and leather and ink and I havemissedthis place.

“Welcome home,” he says.

This might be the only part of the palace that does feel like home.